


Special Delivery

by siriusblue



Series: In A Hundred Lifetimes [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Fluff, Gangs, M/M, Mail Order Brides, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-02-09 09:14:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18635185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: Sheriff of Clearwater Valley, Greg Lestrade, is feeling lonely. On a whim he sends off for a mail-order bride. What he gets is an enigmatic Englishman named Mycroft Holmes. And with the Moriarty Gang terrifying the surrounding area, that is one distraction Greg could do without. If only that were possible...





	1. Chapter One.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Black_Dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Dawn/gifts).



> This is a birthday fic for the incomparable Black_Dawn I hope you enjoy your gift, darling.

Same again,” said Sheriff Greg Lestrade, gesturing to the whiskey bottle.

 

Silently Mike Stamford poured him another shot.

 

“S'up, Sheriff? “Mike asked.

 

Greg sighed.

 

“Lonely, I guess. It's okay, Mike. It'll pass. Just sometimes I miss the big city and the folks there. Place like that, a man could go courting. I ain't getting any younger.”

 

Mike's expression cleared.

 

“Uh, well if that's the kind of company you're after I did hear Mrs H has a new gal in her house. Name of Irene. And a new guy too. I mean, I know you ain't particular about who shares your blankets, Sheriff.”

 

“That's not what I mean,” said Greg, grimacing as he downed another shot of rotgut. “I need a companion. Someone to come home to. Someone to look after.me, that's all.”

 

Mike leaned in confidentially.

 

“Rumour has it that Magnussen  _ bought _ himself a wife.”

 

“Don't be ridiculous!”

 

“I'm not. There's actually a lot of English ladies looking to get hitched. Y'know with the war and all there just ain't enough fellas to go round. Why don't you make some enquiries, Sheriff?”

 

*

 

Greg did exactly that and, to his amazement, found that Mike was telling the truth. It was apparently all handled through an agency who, for a nominal fee, would select a person who was keen to travel to America and become a frontier spouse. The agency subtly hinted that they were of good stock, eager to raise children and willing to work hard.

 

“Just like buying a brood mare,” thought Greg.

 

He had more than enough gold to pay the agency fee, earned from his time as a miner before his claim panned out, and keep a wife in whatever comfort he could.

 

Clearwater Valley was a mixed mining and ranch town, not exactly a metropolis but there would be amusement enough for a homebody, Greg supposed.

 

He filled in the application form stating his preferences. Someone tall. Literate. Liked reading. Knowledgeable in the ways of running a house. And younger than him. Looks were of no consequence;Greg had been Sheriff long enough to know the effects of a pretty face in a mostly masculine environment.

 

He wired the money and the form to the agency, sat back and waited.

 

A month later, just as Greg was nailing up a WANTED poster for the Moriarty Gang, Dimmock, Greg's deputy came running into the jailhouse.

 

“Telegram for you, Sheriff.”

 

“Thanks, Charlie. Go see if Joe's finished shoeing Midnight, will you?”

 

Greg deliberately waited till he was alone before opening the telegram with fingers that only shook slightly.

 

_ APPLICATION ACCEPTED. STOP. PLEASED TO INFORM M. HOLMES ON WAY TO C.S. STOP. ARRIVING 24TH INST STOP. BEST WISHES. STOP. _

 

Greg glanced at the dry goods store calendar hanging on the wall across from his desk. ‘M’ would be here in three days. 

 

*

 

The night before the mysterious M's arrival, Greg was having a companionable drink in the saloon with Doc Watson.

 

“Mary's very excited about your lady coming tomorrow,” John told him. “Nearly as excited as Rosie. It'll be good for the town women to have someone new to talk to.”

 

“I must admit, I'm pretty excited myself,” Greg confessed. “Past time I settled down. I see you and Mary, Mike and Annie as happy as can be and I want that for myself.”

 

“Is it true what the girls are saying, Sheriff?”

 

This came from Molly, her fresh complexion and delicate features at odds with the fact that she was one of Mrs Hudson's girls working the saloon. It was early yet; the changeover at the mine wasn't due for a couple of hours, then she'd be swamped with offers for her companionship.

 

“Yeah, Molly,” said Greg with a smile. “My bride-to-be is arriving tomorrow. I've hired a trap to go pick her up from the train station.”

 

Molly clapped her hands with glee. She loved a happy ending.

 

“I'm happy for you. Sebastian will miss you though.”

 

Greg blushed. Sebastian would indeed miss him, Greg was his best customer, but he was making a fresh start with his life and no new bride would put up with that kind of nonsense.

 

Greg finished his drink, clapped John on the shoulder, tipped his hat to Molly and headed to the back of the saloon where the bath house was. If he was cleaning up his act in every sense, it should start now.

 

*

 

Freshly-scrubbed from head to toe and as closely shaved and newly shorn as the barber could make him, Greg climbed aboard the trap and lightly touched the reins, bowling along the road and out of town towards the train station. He kept his gun easily accessible;the Moriarty gang were getting bolder and the last thing he needed on today of all days was an encounter that would make him late.

 

Punctual as ever, he hitched the pony to the rail and went to wait on the platform, sharing a nod with Philip Anderson, proprietor of the general store in town who was waiting for a delivery.

 

As he waited, Greg's nerves began to tell on him. What if she didn't like him? What if she were a shrew? Or a spendthrift?

 

He had fretted himself almost to a standstill when he heard the chuffing of the steam train as it pulled closer to the station.

 

Greg straightened his best suit and squared the hat on his head as the engine pulled up in a huge gout of steam.

 

“Clearwater Pass!” yelled the conductor. “Clearwater Pass.”

 

Carriage doors opened and people emerged while the conductor walked to the back to help the guard unload the store's delivery.

 

Clearwater Valley didn't get a lot of visitors. Greg recognised almost everyone who got off the train and his heart sank to his boots when the only female who alighted was Mrs Hudson's sister.

 

The conductor climbed back on and blew his whistle and the train pulled out of the station heading for Shiloh where it would terminate.

 

Greg's attention was drawn to the only stranger who had got off. He was tall and willowy with a long nose and strands of coppery hair peeked out from under his hat. His suit was the finest Greg had ever seen, putting his own broadcloth to shame.

 

The man checked his pocket watch and looked around him uncertainly. Greg decided to ease his crushing disappointment by helping this stranger who looked close to panicking.

 

“Morning,” said Greg with a broad smile. “Looking for someone?”

 

“Yes, actually.” the stranger replied, looking relieved. Close to, he had the most mesmerising clear blue eyes. “Someone was supposed to meet me here and take me to meet my future spouse.”

 

“Ain't that a coincidence,” said Greg wryly. “Got a name?”

 

The man fumbled a much-folded telegram from the watch pocket of his waistcoat.

 

“My fiancée's name is G. Lestrade.” he said. “Forgive me. My name is Holmes. Mycroft Holmes.”

 

Greg just stared. This incredible man with the cut-glass accent was M? 

 

“Pleasure to meet you,Mycroft. I'm Greg Lestrade. Looks like there's been one almighty mix-up at the agency. I was told to expect an M Holmes and you were told to meet a G Lestrade. “

 

Mycroft's eyes were so wide they were in danger of falling out of his head. Then to Greg's astonishment, Mycroft laughed. It was a proper deep chuckle that was startling in someone who looked so proper.

 

“Oh, this is perfect! You realise, don't you, that some poor ranch widow is expecting a new husband and instead she'll end up with a girl fresh off the boat.”

 

Greg joined in the laughter.

 

“Yeah, that's going to be one heck of a surprise.”

 

Then Mycroft sobered.

 

“What on earth am I going to do now?” he asked.

 

“Well, the next train back East isn't due for another week,” Greg told him.

 

“And the next ship to England isn't for at least a month,” said Mycroft in a hollow voice.

 

Greg made one of his quick decisions.

 

“Look. It's been a total balls-up from the get-go. Why don't you come back with me to Clearwater Valley and we'll figure something out?”

 

Mycroft looked surprised.

 

“Either that or you freeze your butt off out here. Probably starve too.”

 

“Well when you put it like that,” said Mycroft wryly. “How could I refuse?”

 

He picked up his carpet bag and followed Greg out of the station to the waiting trap. Greg admired his fluid grace as he climbed on board while Greg unhitched the pony.

 

Mycroft looked around him as Greg drove them back to town.

 

“It's pretty round here,” Mycroft said. “Big skies and lovely mountains.”

 

“We like it,” admitted Greg. “It's good mining country. And there's a load of land for the ranches. Cattle and horses mostly.”

 

“Which one are you, Mr Lestrade?”

 

“Call me Greg, willya? Neither. I'm the sheriff.”

 

“The sheriff? My goodness.”

 

“It has its moments.” Greg admitted. “It's mostly quiet, except when a few of the boys get rowdy in the saloon or rambunctious around Mrs H's place. The brothel.” Greg added, seeing Mycroft's confusion.

 

“Well, it sounds fine. I won't be a burden to you, Greg. I have enough money to stay in a rooming house until I can decide what to do for the best.”

 

“Wouldn't hear of it,” said Greg shortly. “It's kinda my fault you're here so you can stay with me. Deal?”

 

They shook on it like gentlemen.

 

*

 

Greg returned the trap to the livery and guided Mycroft to his house. 

 

“It's not much but it's better than a tent. Or a bench at the station.” Greg said as Mycroft followed him inside the small cottage just off the main street. The layout consisted of one main room and kitchen and two other rooms. Greg gestured to one.

 

“This is my spare room,” said Greg, his thumbs hooked in his belt. “Make yourself at home, Mycroft.”

 

The room was big enough for a stuffed mattress on an iron bed frame and a washstand with a china pitcher and bowl. Mycroft put his carpet bag on the floor and smiled at Greg.

 

“This will do nicely. Thank you.”

 

“Out back is the necessary house and the water pump is there as well. That's the beauty of a mining town, Mycroft. Straight down to the sweet water of the underground springs.” Greg informed him with a grin. “Now how about I show you around the town?”

 

“Yes please. I'd very much like to see it.”

 

Mycroft followed Greg outside again and down to the main drag of the town.

 

“That's Anderson's the dry goods store. Philip and Sal run it, have done since it was a trading post for the mine. Anything you need, they'll have it.”

 

Mycroft was the subject of some interested looks as he strolled beside the sheriff, now pointing out the jailhouse.

 

“My office as well as the jail. Got a deputy name of Dimmock and a couple of cells for the real troublemakers. We're all the law there is out here. Apart from mining law, that is.”

 

“Fantastic,” said Mycroft. 

 

Greg pointed out the livery stable where he kept his stallion, Midnight, and the blacksmiths, the house on the end of the street with the red lamp in the window which Mycroft rightly identified as the brothel and they finished up outside the saloon.

 

“No church?” Mycroft asked.

 

“No. Got a parson who visits now and then. Anyone fixing to get hitched tends to jump the broomstick till such times as the Rev can do it official like. See the house up yonder with the red roof?”

 

Mycroft looked and nodded.

 

“That's where Doc Watson and his family lives. You'll meet them in time I'm sure.”

 

“This is a very nice place, Greg.” Mycroft said as they headed back to Greg's house, Mycroft being the object of more stares than he was used to.

 

Greg noticed and chuckled ruefully.

 

“Might as well tell you, everyone in town knows I was supposed to be bringing my mail-order bride home today. They'll all be wondering who you are.”

 

“It will give them something to talk about for a while, I'm sure.” Mycroft muttered.

 

“It's fine. They're good-hearted folks for the most part. I'll take you to the saloon tonight and we can explain everything. Sound good?”

 

“Yes, save having to repeat the story every day till I leave.”

 

“Very true. Why don't I leave you to unpack or whatever and I'll check in at the office. I'm also gonna send a telegram to those idiots at the agency and tell them what a mess they made.”

 

Mycroft laughed. He let himself into Greg's house and started unpacking his carpet bag, laying his stuff out on the mattress of his bed. He sighed heavily. Very little of his fine linen would be any good for a month in the West. He'd have to investigate the possibilities of the only store in town.

 

He'd seen the way Greg had looked at him, however, as though he liked what he saw. Mycroft knew that spending time with the handsome lawman with the soft brown eyes and silver hair would be no hardship at all. 

 

In the meantime Mycroft vowed to make himself useful. There was a heavy purse of gold concealed in the false bottom of his carpet bag. He'd put it to good use.

 

Closing the door to Greg's bedroom and feeling no urge to spy in there, Mycroft started making a mental list of supplies.

 

*

 

Charlie Dimmock's eyes were out on stalks when Greg walked into the jailhouse.

 

“Hey, Sheriff. Wasn't expecting to see you here today. So, when do we get to meet her? Is she pretty?”

 

“You won't,” growled Greg, but there was no heat in it. “Agency sent a guy by mistake. He'll be staying with me till he can get back to England.”

 

“A guy? Shit, boss. You must be disappointed.”

 

Greg shrugged. He wasn't quite sure himself.

 

“Never mind that now. Anything happening?”

 

“Just the usual. Cleaned the cells and hosed down the drunk tank. Digger promises never to be in there again.”

 

“Till the next time,” laughed Greg. “Any wires?”

 

Dimmock's easy grin vanished.

 

“One from Shiloh. They've had some trouble with the Moriarty gang. Some cattle rustling, couple of stick-ups. Wondering if we could spare anyone to help out.”

 

The law enforcement of Clearwater Valley consisted of Greg and Charlie but there were a few willing men Greg could deputise in time of need.

 

“I'll ask around,” he said.

 

He sat in his chair and the two men set about making lists of supplies they needed, and work that needed to be done to keep the Moriarty gang at bay. It wasn't till Greg checked his watch that he realised four hours had gone by.

 

“Best get back home, Charlie.” he said. “Rude to leave a guest alone for so long.”

 

“True. Will you be in the bar later?”

 

“Yup. I think we all need a drink after today.”

 

*

 

The first thing Greg noticed when he opened his front door was the smell. He closed the door behind him and went inside then stood there, unable to believe his eyes.

 

His home had been transformed. The floor had been swept and the few pieces of furniture he owned gleamed with fresh polish that smelled like beeswax and lavender.

 

A cheerful fire crackled in the hearth and there was the enticing aroma of cooking emanating from the glowing range. His coffee pot was steaming and a crockpot he definitely didn't possess that morning was bubbling away on the top.

 

Mycroft came in from the back yard and his whole face lit up when he saw Greg.

 

“You're back. I hope you don't mind but I thought I'd repay your kindness by doing a few chores. Sit down, Greg. Dinner is almost ready.

 

In a daze, Greg sat at the freshly-scrubbed table while Mycroft dished the crockpots’ contents onto plates.

 

It looked as good as it smelled and Greg's belly rumbled in appreciation.

 

“Looks great,” he said with a smile. “You didn't have to go to any trouble.”

 

“Nonsense,” said Mycroft briskly. “It's just a bit of chicken and a few vegetables. As I said, it's the least I can do. Tuck in.”

 

Greg was more than happy to oblige. It tasted every bit as good as it looked and smelled. Mycroft was obviously a man of hidden talents and it took a lot of self-control to eat like a normal person and not like a man dying of hunger.

 

When Greg had polished off his second helping, Mycroft cleared away the plates and poured them both coffee.

 

“That was divine. Can't remember the last time I ate that well. Thank you.”

 

To Greg's delight, Mycroft blushed.

 

“I enjoy cooking. Mrs Anderson at the store was very helpful. They keep a fine range of goods in there.”

 

“So you've met Sal. She's a great woman.”

 

“Yes. She says she's looking forward to your announcement tonight.”

 

Greg chuckled and shook his head.

 

“I reckon the whole town was itching for a wedding. Event like that, everyone gets involved.”

 

“I hate to be the source of people's disappointment.” Mycroft sighed.

 

Greg frowned. “It's not your fault. They'll just have to get over it. Besides, a town like this, there'll be something along soon to distract them. Don't fret on it, Mycroft.”

 

“I won't.”

 

*

 

They did the washing up in companionable silence, Greg backed up the range and the fire and they put on their outerwear and walked the short distance to the saloon. 

 

Greg had never seen the place so full, word had spread awfully quickly it seemed. There were even a few of the town's ladies present; Anthea, Mary and Sally, their eyes bright with anticipation as they sipped daintily from their glasses of sherry.

 

“Time for the big reveal,” he whispered to Mycroft out of the corner of his mouth. Mycroft looked resigned.

 

Greg picked up an empty spittoon and banged it on the bar. It went deathly quiet, all eyes on Greg.

 

“Listen up,” he began. With his height he was easily visible to everyone. “Y'all came to meet my mail-order bride. Turns out there was a mix-up at the agency and instead Mr Holmes here turns up.”

 

There was some good-natured laughter from the crowd. Mycroft blushed a very fetching pink at the looks he was getting.

 

“Now until Mr Holmes can get back to England he's staying here as my guest, so I expect y'all to be the nice folks I know you are and make him welcome. That's all.”

 

With that Greg turned to the bar and accepted two shots of sipping whiskey from a grinning Mike.

 

“Could only happen to you, Sheriff,” he said with a wink.

 

“Shut up,” muttered Greg.

 

He turned to give Mycroft one of the glasses only to find he'd disappeared into the crowd. Working his way through, Greg found him being cooed over by Mary and Anthea.

 

“Must have been such a shock to you, Mr Holmes. I swear I wouldn't have known what to do,” exclaimed Mary.

 

“I was very fortunate that it was Greg they sent me to,” said Mycroft softly, a smile for Greg in his eyes.

 

“I don't doubt you would have come up with something.” retorted Anthea. “You don't seem to be the shy type. More like the type that does the telling. What's your story, Mr Holmes?”

 

Mycroft looked a little taken aback by her forthrightness but then he blinked and inclined his head.

 

“In a way, you are correct. My brother and I are descended from a long line of country squires and neither of us were intended to join a profession after university.”

 

The women looked impressed. Education at that level was unheard of in that part of the world.

 

“However my father made a number of disastrous investments and, once he was dead and our creditors paid, there was enough left to complete my brother's education and for me to travel. Which is how I ended up here.”

 

It sounded plausible but Greg was a lawman through and through and there was definitely something off there.

 

“I will probably return to London and see what opportunities await me.” Mycroft continued.

 

He accepted his glass of whiskey from Greg, thus ending that part of the conversation.

 

Billy Wiggins, six and a half feet tall and as grizzly as a bear, strolled up and gave Mycroft a hefty slap on the shoulder.

 

“Do any shooting over in England?”

 

“A great deal, especially in August. I can also ride extremely well and know how to tie any number of fishing flies.” replied Mycroft.

 

Wiggins’ face brightened and he urged Mycroft forward.

 

“You're okay, English. Come and meet a few of the boys.”

 

*

Mycroft was a little unsteady when he and Greg walked home.

 

“They like you,” said Greg as he lit the kerosene lamps and hung his coat on the back of the door.

 

“Salt of the earth,” said Mycroft. “Especially that Wiggins fellow.”

 

“Bill's a trapper. Best there is. Go hunting with him you'll learn a lot.”

 

“I see. Thank you, Greg. I know this must be awkward for you but I'll try and be a good guest.”

 

Greg shrugged.

 

“Just one thing before I say goodnight. You weren't telling the whole truth in the bar there, were you?”

 

Mycroft smiled and it was full of admiration.

 

“You really are a first-class policeman, aren't you? You're right, I didn't choose to leave England, I was made to.”

 

“Figures. What did you do, Mycroft? I won't be easy having you here unless I know the truth.”

 

Mycroft sighed and spread his arms wide, a curiously expansive gesture.

 

“I had a lover. A male lover. It's illegal in England and we got caught. It was either leave the country or go to prison. I chose to leave. There. I'm sorry if that offends you but you wanted to know.”

 

Greg felt heart sorry for him.

 

“We don't have stupid laws like that out here,” he said. “Love who you want because life's hard enough. Goodnight, Mycroft.”

 

As Greg closed his bedroom door he heard the sound of stifled weeping.

 

*

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole thing was supposed to be two chapters *sigh*

Greg woke next morning to the heavenly smell of frying bacon.Pulling on his usual work shirt and trousers, he went to investigate.

 

Mycroft was at the range humming to himself as the coffee pot steamed away and the skillet sizzled.

 

“Morning,” said Greg, stifling a yawn. “Sleep okay?”

 

“Yes,” replied Mycroft with a smile. “Must be the change of air. Would you like some coffee?”

 

“Please.”

 

Mycroft poured him a cup and ladled beans and bacon on to a plate then served himself.

 

“This is real good,” Greg complimented him thickly through a mouthful of bacon. Mycroft smiled, pale pink flushing in his cheeks.

 

Greg finished the last forkful with genuine regret and pushed his plate away.

 

“Got any plans for today?” Greg asked.

 

“More exploring, I think. Talking to some more people. This is a fascinating place, Greg.”

 

“Good place to call home,” Greg agreed. “Gotta go. I'll see you tonight.”

 

He pinned his sheriff's badge to his coat and pulled on his hat. As he left, Mycroft was at the pump drawing fresh water for the dishes.

 

*

 

When he returned that night, there was another fine meal waiting for him and the quite lovely sight of Mycroft with his nose deep in a copy of  _ The Count of Monte Cristo. _

 

Mycroft jumped up when he heard Greg come in and Greg waved him back into his seat.

 

“Carry on, Mycroft. I can shift to feed myself, y'know. Hell of a tale, ain't it?” 

 

“You've read Dumas? He's remarkable.”

 

“Rollicking storyteller but a bit heavy on the sword fights and jewels. A million miles away from this. Maybe that's why I like him so much.”

 

“Perhaps,” smiled Mycroft.

 

“Let's eat and you can tell me what you discovered today.”

 

*

 

To Greg's very real pleasure, this quickly became the pattern of his days. Waking up to find Mycroft there, coming home to find the same was putting a real spring in his step.

 

At night they talked about books and music, Mycroft told Greg about his travels in Europe which left Greg with a strange yearning for places he had never seen or ever would.

 

Occasionally they'd visit the saloon and there would always be a barfly there willing to dispute politics or religion and Greg was happy to take a back seat and listen to Mycroft debate with them. It was all good-natured and light-hearted and gained Mycroft yet more admirers and Greg felt a faint sense of panic when he realised the next train back East was due the next day.

 

_ Do not want to let this go. _

 

*

 

Charlie Dimmock would be the first to admit he wasn't the most observant man in the world but even he could see that the Sheriff had something on his mind. 

 

Brooding. Quickly followed by incandescent anger when Charlie casually mentioned it must have been the strangest week of Greg's life, quickly followed by a sort-of apology and a retreat into huffy silence.

 

Charlie grabbed the opportunity to ride out to the mining settlement and let the Sheriff handle his demons in peace.

 

Greg put off going back to his house for as long as possible;there was a backlog of paperwork to deal with and the mind numbing similarity of it all distracted him from the thought of what he might find when he  _ did  _ make it home.

 

Eventually he realised he was fooling himself and, since there were no prisoners in the lock-up, Greg headed home.

 

There was a moment of euphoria when he saw there was a lamp burning in the living room and he wouldn't admit to just how fast he hurried in only to find Mycroft slumped in what was rapidly becoming his chair and fast asleep.

 

The noise woke him and he gifted Greg with a warm sleepy smile.

 

“You're back late,” said Mycroft. “I was starting to worry. Must have dropped off.”

 

“I was wondering if you'd still be here,” admitted Greg. “What with the train arriving today and all.”

 

Mycroft stood up and stretched.

 

“That would have been incredibly rude of me, Greg. You have been generosity itself since we met. The very least I could do was say goodbye.”

 

Greg looked quite shamefaced.

 

“Yeah, I know you were raised better than that.” Timidly he squeezed Mycroft's shoulder. “I'm glad you stayed.”

 

Mycroft's look was both shy and appraising.

 

“So am I, Greg. I'll say goodnight. Bill is taking me shooting tomorrow and he insists on an early start.”

 

Greg wondered where the sudden jealous ache had come from but he grinned.

 

“Bill's a real early bird. See you tomorrow sometime then.”

 

Greg undressed and climbed into bed but it was a long time before he slept.

 

*

 

Mycroft was gone the next morning when Greg got up but there was porridge in the pot and coffee that was still reasonably hot. Greg helped himself and headed out, much easier in mind than he had been the day before.

 

*

 

There was a very fine rabbit stew waiting for Greg when he got home later that day, mopped up with Sally's homemade bread. Then Mycroft produced a bottle that he had hidden in his coat pocket.

 

“Bill insisted I take it,” he explained, a trifle sheepishly. “He said it would help keep me warm as he believes there's a cold front coming. But you're a lawman, perhaps I should pour it down the sink.”

 

“Are you crazy?” Greg exclaimed, grabbing the bottle and pulling the cork with his teeth. “Bill's moonshine is the best in four counties.”

 

He took a swallow, coughed and handed the bottle back to Mycroft who took a tentative sip.

 

Greg wished for one of those newfangled cameras to capture forever the cute expression on Mycroft's face;a mixture of surprise and disgust.

 

“Smooth, ain't it?” Greg laughed as Mycroft shuddered and handed the bottle back.

 

“Dear Lord, you can actually  _ feel _ it burning its way down.”

 

“Did you have a good time?” Greg asked casually.

 

“We bagged half a dozen rabbits, so it was well worth it. Bill's curing the skins. He reckons I'll need some decent gloves. Or maybe a hat.”

 

Greg sat in his own chair and stretched his legs towards the hearth.

 

“The cold spells around these parts can be brutal. Maybe you should take him up on the hat.”

 

“I might at that. Mrs Anderson was kind enough to let me order some winter clothing from the Sears and Roebuck catalogue. She believes it will be delivered on the next train.”

 

Greg looked surprised and Mycroft sighed.

 

“It's a good investment. I can't ever go back home, Greg, so wherever I end up is going to get colder than I'm used to.”

 

Greg took another swallow of moonshine. “Good point,” he added. The thought of Mycroft living anywhere but, well,  _ here _ was one he didn't want to dwell on.

 

_ Do not want to let this go. _

 

*

 

Next day Mycroft had just left the general store and was walking down the main street when he was hailed by a pretty woman with long curling dark hair and brown eyes. Her green silk dress made her stand out among the other townsfolk and their more muted colours.

 

“Hi,” said the woman. “You must be the mail-order bride.”

 

“Mycroft Holmes at your service,” he said with a bow and a smile. “I don't believe we've met?”

 

“Molly Hooper. I'm one of Mrs Hudson's girls. Good to meet you Mycroft. How do you like Clearwater Valley?”

 

“It's a very nice little town,” said Mycroft with a smile. “I like the people.”

 

Molly smiled, revealing a fetching set of dimples.

 

“They're good folks. I've been here four years now and it suits me. Planning on staying?”

 

“That depends,” said Mycroft cautiously. “If I can find work, then maybe.”

 

Molly clapped her hands and grinned.

 

“I hope so. Y'all from England?”

 

“London mostly.”

 

Her eyes were like saucers.

 

“I've always wanted to see London,” she confessed.” Is it beautiful?”

 

“It's noisy, smelly and dirty,” laughed Mycroft. “It's as unlike here as anywhere in the world.”

 

“Will you tell me about it properly?” Molly begged. “Oh, not here and now, but maybe you could come for tea one afternoon? Mrs H. would love to meet you. You've been quite the topic of conversation since you got here.”

 

Mycroft bowed again and took her hand, kissing it. Molly giggled and blushed.

 

“It would be my pleasure, Miss Hooper. Maybe tomorrow would suit?”

 

“Perfect. See you around four”

 

“Four it is. Good day.”

 

Mycroft watched her walk away and noticed how, even though she was clearly a member of the oldest profession, no one on the main street greeted her with anything less than courtesy and that included the women.

 

Mycroft was intrigued by the entire town. Never had he felt so instantly accepted or so comfortable in his own skin. He had sense enough to give Sheriff Greg some of the credit for that but not all.

 

It would be good to talk to Molly tomorrow and find out as much as he could about Greg from another's perspective. To find out, in a roundabout way, if the surreptitious glances he sometimes caught from the silver-haired lawman meant what he so desperately hoped. 

 

*

 

“You know she's a hooker, right?” Greg asked. Mycroft, in the middle of lighting a cigar, choked on the smoke.

 

“That doesn't mean,” Mycroft began, wiping his streaming eyes, “that I should treat her as less of a human being, Greg. She was being neighbourly, that's all. She probably worked out that I have absolutely no interest in engaging her professional services within seconds of meeting me. I've never visited a brothel before. I shall find it quite the experience.”

 

Mycroft drew on his cigar and tried not to think of the relieved expression on Greg's face when he said he wasn't interested in Molly or what it could mean.

 

*

 

Mycroft was aware of a few confused glances as he duly presented himself at the house with the red lamp in the window the next day.

 

The door was opened by a tiny woman dressed in lavender silk. With her bright inquisitive eyes she reminded Mycroft of a sparrow.

 

“Here to see Molly, dear? Come through to the parlour. I'm Mrs Hudson.”

 

“Mycroft Holmes. A pleasure to meet you,” he replied, following her indoors and into a room in the left of the hallway.

 

Mycroft hadn't known what to expect but the bright room with tasteful art on the walls and thick rugs on the floor wouldn't have looked out of place in his parents manor house. Mrs Hudson ushered him into a chair and told him she wouldn't be a minute.

 

Molly came in first, dressed today in a long dark skirt and a fine lawn blouse with her hair loose and she smiled at Mycroft who had stood up as she entered the room.

 

“So gallant, Mr Holmes. Please sit. Mrs H will be along shortly with tea. Yeah, actual British tea. She gets it sent here,” she said taking in Mycroft's surprised look.

 

Sure enough, the lady of the house returned with a steaming silver teapot and fine china on a heavy tray which Mycroft leapt up to take from her.

 

Once they had all been served, Mrs Hudson asked Mycroft if he minded her staying.

 

“Not that I don't trust you, Mr Holmes. It's just been such a long time since we've had such an interesting visitor and I'm eager to hear of news from England.”

 

“I don't mind at all,” he replied, relaxing into his chair. “Thank you for your hospitality.” Mycroft took a sip of his tea. It was exceptionally good.

 

“There's quite the buzz about you arriving here by mistake,” said Molly. “You seem to be handling it pretty well.”

 

“Greg has been kindness itself. Had it been anyone else, I doubt I would have been so lucky.” replied Mycroft.

 

“He's a fine sheriff,” added Mrs Hudson. “Firm but fair. Not that we get much trouble but he can certainly handle it when we do. Can I ask why you signed up for this? A fine gent like you?”

 

Mycroft gave them the whole truth, theorising that a prostitute and a brothel keeper wouldn't be shocked. He was wrong, but not for the reasons he thought.

 

“Hard labour? For having sex? I don't believe it!” Molly exclaimed.

 

“It's true, dear. One of the reasons I emigrated, though things seem much worse than they were.” Mrs Hudson added. “I've always had men in my houses as well as women.” she said to Mycroft. “The ancient Greeks knew that men who loved men existed, same as women who love women. Seb does a roaring trade when the cattle drives pass this way with the cowboys. He's had his regulars in town as well. Though I don't think one of them will be back in a hurry.”

 

That was followed by the most salacious wink Mycroft had ever seen on a lady and codified for him Greg's possible attraction.

 

“Let's talk about something else,” pleaded Molly.

 

There followed a quiet hour of discussing London, the latest on fashions and entertainment which Molly absorbed like drought-stricken earth after rain.

 

As Mycroft made to leave, after promising not to be a stranger, a tall blond man with arresting green eyes came thundering down the stairs and stopped cold when he saw Mycroft.

 

“So you're the one, are you?” he hissed.

 

“I'm sorry?” Mycroft asked, confused.

 

“Tell Greg I'll still be here when you're not.” 

 

The man stalked out and slammed the door behind him.

 

“I'm sorry for that,” said Mrs Hudson, clutching at Mycroft's jacket.

 

“You don't need to apologise,” he assured her. “I presume that was Seb.”

 

“You presume right,” said Molly. “Ignore him. He's just sore that Greg hasn't been near since you arrived.”

 

“Oh.” 

 

There wasn't a single thing Mycroft could say to that.

  
  



	3. Chapter Three

Bill's prediction of a cold spell proved to be right on the money; the mercury in the thermometer outside the general store dropped like a stone and the skies turned a peculiar slate grey.

 

Full to the brim with Mycroft's porridge, wrapped up in a hand-knitted scarf and gloves and with Mycroft's exhortations to stay warm, Greg left his house for the office.

 

Dimmock was already there and had the stove blazing. A stack of wood was propped beside it and Greg sighed with relief as he unwound the scarf from his neck and took off his gloves.

 

"Not much to report, Sheriff." Dimmock said as he poured Greg a mug of coffee. "Cold has been keeping folks at home."

 

"Good to hear," muttered Greg, claiming the chair behind his desk and leafing through the paperwork that he was convinced secretly bred when he wasn't looking.

 

Around one o'clock the jailhouse door opened and Mycroft walked in carrying a crockpot from which the most delicious savoury smells were wafting.

 

"It's absolutely freezing out there!" Mycroft exclaimed. The chill had added roses to his cheeks and to the tip of his nose.

 

"Told you it'd get nippy," said Greg with a smile. "What on earth are you doing out of the house?"

 

"I thought you might be hungry," said Mycroft. "So I brought you and the deputy some stew to keep you warm."

 

"That was mighty thoughtful of you, Mr Holmes." said Dimmock enthusiastically, his eyes on the crockpot.

 

"Mycroft, please. My delivery should be here on the train and I promised Mrs Watson I would help her with Rosie."

 

Greg looked a bit puzzled so Mycroft hastened to explain.

 

"She's been teaching her at home but she would like Rosie to learn some other subjects, so I said I'd visit and see what we could come up with."

 

"Sounds like you've got a full day," smiled Greg.

 

"Very full, but there's pork and beans for dinner tonight whenever you get home."

 

"I haven't had pork and beans in the longest time," said Greg, drooling at the thought. "You're far too good to me."

 

Greg was delighted to see Mycroft blush a little from the praise.

 

"I'll let you get on." said Mycroft. Then his attention was drawn to the noticeboard where Dimmock had pinned up a new WANTED poster.

 

"The Moriarty Gang." Mycroft read aloud. "Have they been troublesome for you?"

 

"Not exactly," admitted Greg. "They've been very active roundabout; bank robberies, stage holdups, coupla nasty murders, cattle rustling, you know the sort of thing. Never in Clearwater Valley though. They steer clear of us for some reason."

 

"Probably because of the fierce guardians of law and order you have here. I'm sure they're terrified." said Mycroft with a teasing smile. "Don't let your stew get cold. I'll see you when you get home. Good afternoon, Deputy Dimmock."

 

Mycroft left, letting a blast of cold air in in his wake while the two men dished out the still-warm stew and tucked in.

 

"He's one hell of a cook," said Dimmock admiringly as he scraped the pot clean. "No wonder you're so contented, Sheriff."

 

"Oh, cork it!" Greg exclaimed, horrified to feel himself blushing.

 

*

 

"Are you absolutely sure?" Mycroft asked despairingly.

 

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes," said Sally, waving to the depleted shelves in the store behind her. "The train's been delayed thanks to this lousy weather so we're getting a bit light on stuff ourselves."

 

"Yes of course. My apologies, Mrs Anderson. I didn't mean to imply this was your fault, it's just…"

 

Sally looked sympathetic. 

 

"Keep the stove good and hot and wear most of your underthings. This spell will pass, Mr Holmes. And when winter really sets in, you'll be ready."

 

*

 

Mycroft sat at the newly-scrubbed kitchen table in the Watson's house with six year old Rosie. She had a book open in front of her and her finger traced the words as she read them aloud. She looked triumphant as she reached the end of the sentence and Mycroft applauded.

 

"Bravo. That was splendid. Your mother has taught you well, Miss Watson."

 

"You talk funny," said Rosie. "Momma says it's because you're from Engerland."

 

"England," he corrected her gently. "And your mother is correct."

 

"Where is that? England? Do they all talk like you?"

 

"Rosie! Don't be rude." admonished Mary from where she was sitting by the fire.

 

"Not rude, merely curious," laughed Mycroft. "Do you have a pencil and paper?"

 

"Uhuh." Rosie got  down from her seat and rummaged in a nearby cupboard. "Here," she said, handing Mycroft the required items.

 

"Now," he began, sketching lightly with the pencil. "This is America."

 

"It's really big. Poppa says it takes days to get anywhere."

 

"He is also correct," said Mycroft. "It takes weeks to sail from America to England across the ocean. England is an island. See how small it is compared to America?"

 

"Momma! England is tiny!" Rosie exclaimed. Her mother smiled.

 

"That is where I come from. A city called London. The Queen lives there as well."

 

Rosie's eyes were like saucers now.

 

"A queen? Princes and princesses too?"

 

"A plethora," Mycroft assured her.

 

"Will you tell me about them?" Rosie begged.

 

"Yes of course. All the history and geography you could wish for."

 

"Will you go back to England?" Rosie asked then wished she hadn't because Mr Holmes, the most interesting person she had ever met, looked incredibly sad and didn't answer her.

 

"So, would you like me to teach you?" Mycroft finally said.

 

"Yes please." Rosie replied.

 

"You know Mycroft, Mike and Anthea have twin boys about Rosie's age, and there's Sal and Philip's little girl too." Mary said, joining them at the table. "Maybe they would like a little schooling. I could ask if you like. No reason you can't set up here, there's plenty room."

 

Rosie looked mutinous. She didn't want to share Mr Holmes with  _ anyone _ let alone a couple of icky  _ boys _ . And Deanna was two whole years younger than her. It would be horrible. Yet Mr Holmes was smiling and the light had come back into his eyes as he agreed with Momma. Rosie realised she might just have to put up with it.

 

*

 

The fragrant aroma of pork and beans greeted Greg when he walked through his front door that night and he wasted no time in devouring the plateful Mycroft set in front of him.

 

As they huddled in front of the fire, Mycroft told him about Mary Watson's idea.

 

"Sounds real good." Greg said, as if he were weighing every word. "For a town this size we don't have a lot of little folks. It's a new-ish town but that'll change. Could be we need a schoolmaster."

 

Greg tried desperately to keep his expression neutral. Mycroft teaching the town's children? That spoke to him of long-term commitment and he was struggling to keep the joy out of his expression.

 

"I never closed my account with my bookseller in London," Mycroft mused. "They will have a wealth of suitable material for educating young minds. I will write and request a booklist. There is an excellent stationer in New York as well, I believe…"

 

Greg sat contentedly listening to Mycroft expand on his plans; a rich, warm feeling of happiness expanding inside him like a balloon.

 

_ Do not want to let this go. _

 

Now he might not have to.

 

*

 

Greg was a generally heavy sleeper but he was also a lawman and strange noises in the night woke him as effectively as a bucketful of cold water to the face. He got out of bed and wrapped the quilt around himself, grabbing his gun from the nightstand, making his way silently to the living room.

 

He blinked owlishly at the sight of Mycroft practically melded to the stove, pale and shivering.

 

"S-s-sorry," said Mycroft through chattering teeth. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

 

"You idiot," said Greg. "You're half-frozen."

 

"My winter clothing has been delayed," Mycroft explained. "And I do feel the cold quite badly."

 

"Come here," said Greg.

 

Mycroft stood up reluctantly, tremors still running through him.

 

"Come to bed with me," said Greg. "I'll keep you warm, stop you freezing to death. Shared body heat, that's what you need."

 

He crooked a finger at Mycroft who followed him willingly.

 

Greg got into bed and Mycroft climbed in beside him.

 

"Jesus!" Greg yelped as he felt Mycroft's hands. He curled around him, holding him close under the quilt topped with a bearskin and held him very close till Mycroft stopped shivering.

 

It was very pleasant, there in the dark, to hold another body tight. Mycroft smelled of woodsmoke and fresh soap, finer than any perfume in Greg's opinion. He could feel his eyelids getting heavy as Mycroft's breathing slowed and evened as he warmed up and Greg's lips may just have grazed Mycroft's ear as he started to fall asleep.

 

*

 

Mycroft woke early as dawn peeked through the gap in the curtains. He took a moment to revel in the warm solidity of Greg pressed firmly against him, a casually-flung arm around his waist holding him close. Mycroft wriggled a little closer and Greg held him a little tighter.

 

"You feel so good," murmured Greg.

 

"So do you," replied Mycroft, clasping Greg's hand where it lay on his waist. "I've dreamed of this," he confessed.

 

"Really?"

 

"Yes. I've dreamed of sharing your bed. Of kissing you. Touching you. Making you see stars. You enchant me, Greg."

 

Mycroft shuffled round so Greg could see the sincerity in his eyes.

 

"Ever since I came here all I could think about was how blessed I am that I ended up with you. How things could have turned out so differently. And last night when I was talking about teaching the children, like this may not be just a temporary thing for me...I got the impression that made you happy."

 

Greg ran his hand through Mycroft's ruffled hair, his warm palm coming to rest against the back of Mycroft's neck. 

 

"It did. I thought of a hundred reasons to persuade you to stay but I didn't want to frighten you off. Just in case this wasn't what you wanted but I can't recall being happier in my life now that you're in it."

 

Mycroft smiled, his cheeks flushing a delicate pink.

 

"That's very good to know," he smiled and kissed Greg firmly on the mouth. For a heartbeat Greg didn't respond, then he was kissing Mycroft back as if his life depended on it.

 

As they broke for air, Greg looked intently at Mycroft.

 

"Are you sure?" Greg asked.

 

"More than anything," Mycroft replied, freeing himself from Greg's embrace and sitting up in order to pull his nightshirt off.

 

"So beautiful," breathed Greg, drinking in the sight of Mycroft's pale skin dotted with freckles, drawing him close so Mycroft could feel how much he was wanted.

 

"You're a little overdressed," sighed Mycroft as Greg caressed his arse with his thick fingers.

 

Grinning, Greg made short work of his nightwear and stretched out so Mycroft could get a good look.

 

"You're absolutely perfect," said Mycroft, the tips of his fingers skimming over Greg's chest to his erection which twitched in anticipation of his touch.

 

Greg pulled Mycroft on to him so their erections were aligned and took them both in his grip.

 

"This okay?" he asked.

 

"God, yes!" Mycroft gasped. "I won't last long, I'm sorry."

 

"That makes two of us," whimpered Greg as he increased his rhythm;the feeling of Mycroft sliding against him driving him closer and closer to the edge until a soft cry of sheer pleasure from his partner and the warm spray of Mycroft's orgasm tipped Greg into oblivion.

 

They held each other close as they recovered; sweaty, sticky and tangled in each other, both smiling, both ecstatic at what they had begun.

 

It was Mycroft who broke the silence.

 

"I have no sense of shame with you, Greg. But I think we should cover up before we catch our death."

 

Mycroft felt Greg's rumbling laugh as the lawman pulled the discarded quilt over them both.

 

"Five more minutes before I have to get back to the real world." Greg said, as Mycroft curled around him like a contented feline.

 

"And what would you call this?" Mycroft asked. "Is this not real?"

 

"No, darlin'. This is Paradise." came the reply. "And nothing anyone says will change my mind."

 

TBC


	4. Chapter Four.

_ One Month Later _

 

Mycroft collected his horse from the livery stable and rode out to the train station. She was a sweet-tempered mare the colour of warm honey, which is what he had decided to call her. What made Honey even more special was that she was a gift from his Greg.

 

On the platform Mycroft spotted Sebastian standing there forlornly, a heavy pack at his feet. The last time Mycroft had had tea with Molly, she had told him that Sebastian was thinking of leaving for pastures new. By the look of things, that time had come.

 

Mycroft wasn't entirely sorry; when the true status of his and Greg's relationship became common knowledge, Sebastian had been devastated according to Molly. His and Sebastian's paths rarely crossed but when they did, the man's expression was the same. Hurt incomprehension.

 

Naturally, Mycroft had asked Greg about it but Greg had reassured him that what had been between him and Sebastian was a business relationship, nothing more.

 

While Mycroft believed him, it was as plain as day that Sebastian had wanted more. Wanted what Mycroft had now, what he would die to protect and Mycroft felt a little sorry for him.

 

The train chuffed into the station and Mycroft moved to the guard's van where a hefty parcel awaited him. When he turned to carry it out of the station, Sebastian had vanished.

 

*

 

Lessons done for the day, Mycroft relaxed in the Watson's kitchen with a mug of fresh coffee, listening to his pupils tearing around in the yard.

 

"They're all doing so well," said Mary enthusiastically. "Those new books have really made a difference."

 

"They are all wonderful children. It helps enormously that they are so keen to learn. Truthfully, Mary, I never pictured myself as a schoolmaster but I think I may have found my vocation." 

 

Mary Watson smiled at him. His arrival had certainly been the talk of the town but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that the tall Englishman had carved a place for himself in the town's heart and in that of Sheriff Lestrade.

 

Mycroft checked his pocket watch and startled.

 

"Good heavens, I had no idea of the time!" he exclaimed. "Greg will be home soon. Good day, Mary." Mycroft concluded, gathering his books and getting up from the table.

 

Mary heard him calling his farewells to the kids in the yard before she got up and rinsed Mycroft's mug in the sink before starting to prepare dinner. When she thought of how Mycroft had hurried home to do the exact same thing, she laughed quietly to herself.

 

"Oh, Mycroft. You poor besotted bastard," she muttered.

 

*

 

When Greg got home he found Mycroft at the stove stirring a wonderfully aromatic pot of something. Greg was more than happy to claim the proffered kiss from the man he adored before splashing his hands and face and claiming his seat at the table.

 

As they ate, they talked about their respective days, Greg chucking at the described antics of the Stamford twins and Mycroft growing concerned about the encroachment of the Moriarty Gang.

 

"So far, so good, darlin'" said Greg, as they settled in front of the fire. "They've kept away from the Valley and they'll stay away if they know what's good for them."

 

Mycroft still looked worried so Greg tried to distract him, with some success. Having a flushed, rumpled Mycroft on his lap with his lips tasting of the whiskey they had shared counted as a win, didn't it?

 

In their bed that night, Mycroft was incredibly tender; holding tight to Greg with every part of him as they made love, curling close to him in the warm afterglow as if to protect him in his sleep. Greg held him tight, offering up a blessing to the bumbling agent who had sent the other half of his heart to him. Listening to Mycroft's deep, regular breathing Greg closed his eyes and drifted off.

 

The next day was a day off for Greg so they both rose late and there were shared sleepy smiles over hot coffee and freshly fried bacon.

 

"What you got planned for today, darlin'?" Greg asked.

 

"Geography," said Mycroft with a grin. "Rosie can't get enough of it. Doctor and Mrs Watson are raising an explorer, I think."

 

"Well then, ain't that something?"

 

"What will you do today, my dearest?"

 

"As little as possible,especially when I've got an enthralling book for company," replied Greg with relish. "Mr Verne and I will be right there in my seat when you get back. I thought we might go out tonight. Seems like a while since I showed you off."

 

"Sounds a wonderful idea. I'll be the proudest man in Clearwater Valley with you on my arm. Now I should get dressed and get going." smiled Mycroft.

 

In a short space of time, Mycroft was groomed and ready, taking time to kiss Greg goodbye and leave with a broad smile on his face.

 

Greg performed his own grooming ritual, tidied the kitchen and put a fresh pot of coffee on the stove. He was thoroughly engrossed in the exploits of Captain Nemo when there was a loud knock on the door.

 

Greg was privately disgruntled to see Deputy Dimmock standing there but one look at the man's expression was enough to put Greg on high alert.

 

"Charlie, what's up?"

 

"Sorry to disturb your day off, Sheriff, but we just got a telegram from Shiloh. They's in trouble, sir."

 

Greg grabbed the buff form from Dimmock's trembling fingers and read the message. Shiloh was indeed in trouble.

 

"Gimme five minutes then we'll round up a posse." Greg said decisively. "I'll go grab Midnight from the stable. You still here, Deputy?"

 

"Sorry, Sheriff." Dimmock took to his heels as Greg closed the door. Greg put on his vest with his badge of office and fastened his gun to his belt. He'd issue shotguns to those of the posse that didn't have them. Troubled in mind, he set out for the livery stable.

 

*

 

A couple of hours later a posse of most of the able-bodied men from Clearwater Valley thundered into the town of Shiloh with Greg at the head.

 

The town was quiet with people going about their daily business and the posse was on the receiving end of some curious looks.

 

"Something smells mighty hinky, Sheriff." Bill Wiggins rumbled, to which Greg nodded. He dismounted from Midnight in a fluid movement and strode into the Sheriff's office.

 

"Sheriff Lestrade!" Sheriff Leon exclaimed. "What brings you here? Hey, fellas." This was to the rest of the party crowding in behind Greg.

 

"Dan, we got a telegram saying Shiloh was in trouble from the Moriarty Gang," said Greg, cold, black dread forming in the pit of his stomach. "Know anything about that?"

 

The sheriff shook his head.

 

"Didn't come from me, Greg. Yeah, we've had our lumps but not recently. Someone pulling your chain? Hey, you okay?"

 

Daniel Leon moved towards Greg as he genuinely feared the other man would collapse.

 

"Greg?"

 

"It's a fucking diversion," said Greg who was paper white. "They've gone to Clearwater Valley."

 

There was a loud murmur of consternation from the assembled men followed by a surge out of the door as they raced to their horses with Greg in the lead.

 

All Greg could think about as he urged Midnight into a gallop was that Mycroft was there, unprotected.

 

Greg had to get there fast.  If anything had happened to Mycroft, Greg would never forgive himself. 

 

*

 

They drove the horses hard and as they approached Clearwater Valley, the very thing Greg had been dreading manifested; there was a pall of smoke hanging over the town.

 

Greg was about to urge Midnight forward even faster when John Watson caught the horse's bridle.

 

"Steady, Greg. We've all got people we love in there but you won't be helping anyone if you go charging in and get your head blown off."

 

"You're right," agreed Greg through gritted teeth and directed half the riders to approach the town from the other side. Only then did he feel he could approach it relatively calmly.

 

The town was deserted. Not a soul was on the main street. The telegraph office's windows were smashed,the doors to the general store had been wrenched off and the whole place ransacked. A slim figure lay outside clutching at her bloody head.

 

Philip Anderson jumped off his horse with a cry and rushed to help his wife. John exclaimed and took off at top speed, yelling behind him that he was going to get his supplies from his house.

 

Greg rode Midnight up the main street to see what other damage had been done. The saloon was turned upside down, the air heavy with the smell of spilled alcohol but elsewhere seemed relatively unscathed and with the return of the posse the remaining townsfolk were emerging from where they had hidden themselves.

 

Most showed signs of injury and clustered around Greg to tell him what had happened.

 

"They came out of nowhere," said one woman. "Everything they did...it seemed like it was a game to them."

 

"Have they gone?" Greg asked. Bill had dismounted and was kneeling in the dirt of the street, his expression fixed as he concentrated, all of his tracking senses on high alert.

 

"Most of 'em gone, Sheriff but two broke off from the main party heading yonder." Bill pointed in the direction that John had ridden off in.

 

"Oh, no!" Greg exclaimed. John had taken a rather long time to pick up a few essentials. And Mycroft. Mycroft had been teaching that morning.

 

"Mycroft is up there with Doc Watson and his family." Greg said, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. The two men exchanged a grim look.

 

"We'll go there and see what's happening. The rest of you, do what you can for the others."

 

The rest of the posse dismounted and started to assist the townsfolk as Greg dismounted and Bill and he made their way on foot to the Watson house.

 

The front door had been kicked in so Bill acknowledged Greg's gesture and circled round to the back of the house while Greg sneaked in the front.

 

He could hear voices coming from the kitchen but none, his sinking heart acknowledged, sounded like Mycroft.

 

Gathering his remaining wits with his gun held out in front of him, Greg pushed open the door to the kitchen and was greeted by a sight from his own personal hell. 

 

John had his arms around his wife. Mary's face was badly bruised but her whole attention was focused on something Greg couldn't see. Rosie clung to her mother, her face buried in Mary's skirts, her tiny shoulders shaking as she cried.

 

And there, in a pool of blood, crumpled like a puppet with the strings cut, lay Mycroft. 

 

Moving through the doorway Greg was pulled up short by a highly-amused voice.

 

"That's far enough, Sheriff Lestrade. Put your gun down and get over there with the others."

 

Greg spun round and saw a man sitting at the Watson's kitchen table. Greg had never seen him before but there was no doubt as to who it was.

 

"Moriarty!"

 

"James Moriarty at your service," the man acknowledged. Not much above average height, slim built with dark hair, Greg would have passed him in the street, considering him unremarkable but there was a fierce intelligence in his gaze and a huge pistol in his hand.

 

"I won't tell you again, Sheriff. Put the gun down."

 

"Better do as he says, Greg," said a second, familiar voice. "If you want to see another sunrise, that is."

 

Greg put his pistol on the table carefully and raised both hands.

 

"Sebastian," he grumbled, looking askance at the former prostitute. "Why am I not surprised?"

 

Sebastian's response was to shove Greg roughly towards the Watsons then moved over to stand beside Moriarty who looked up at him adoringly.

 

"There, Tiger. Didn't I say you'd get your revenge?"

 

"Yes, boss. Feels good too."

 

"Of course it does," purred Moriarty. "The scorned lover kills his rival to spite his former partner. Tale as old as time. However,  _ Greg,  _ imagine how long you'll be sheriff when it comes out that you couldn't catch me because all your pillow talk with my lovely Sebby here was relayed straight back to me. I always knew where you would be so my gang could avoid your tedious attentions."

 

Greg felt sick. The how of it barely mattered. Mycroft was dead and Greg's life was over.

 

"Very smart, Mr Moriarty. A spy in the camp. Not much use to you now, though. Not that he was much good anyway," 

 

Greg looked stonily at Sebastian who had let out a feral hiss and Moriarty's finger tightened on the trigger.

 

"Enough, Sheriff. I was prepared to let you live, to let you suffer just a little bit longer but I'm very changeable. Especially when someone insults my darling."

 

Greg looked him in the eye and saw no mercy there.

 

"Fine. Let the Watsons go. None of this is their fault and hurting them more than you have already. Also little Rosie doesn't need to see this. Consider it my last request."

 

Moriarty made a gesture with his pistol and Sebastian manhandled the Watsons out of the house.

 

Mentally Greg crossed his fingers that Sebastian had met Billy because now it was him against Moriarty and the rage building in his heart meant that only one of them would leave this kitchen alive.

 

"Too bad, Sheriff. I do enjoy an audience for my performances. Any last words? No? Sebby should be here to witness this. Where's he vanished to?"

 

Moriarty was distracted for half a second but that was more than enough time for Greg.

 

There were many reasons Greg was elected Sheriff but the ones he never boasted about were his low centre of gravity that made him a crack shot and his inhumanly fast reflexes.

 

Moriarty didn't even have time to draw a second breath before he was sporting a third eye, neatly drilled by the shot from Greg's pistol.

 

Bill came charging in swinging what looked like half a tree from the woodpile in his massive hand.

 

"Sheriff, you okay? Got the bastard did ya?"

 

Then Bill caught sight of Mycroft's crumpled form and sagged.

 

"Aw, no!" He walked over to where Greg was kneeing. "Hey, English. Don't you dare up and die on me, you hear? "

 

Then he bellowed loud enough for Greg to wince, even though his ears were ringing from the gunshot.

 

"Doc! Get in here. English is hurt real bad!"

 

Greg felt the weight of Bill's hand on his shoulder.

 

"Doc's outside, Sheriff. Wouldn't leave till we knew."

 

John hurried in and edged Greg aside, all professionalism now that his family was safe.

 

"Help me turn him over," he muttered and Bill flipped Mycroft with ease.

 

There was a lot of blood but John wasn't disturbed by that. He carefully examined Mycroft and sat back on his heels. To Greg's astonishment he was smiling.

 

"He's not dead, Greg. Just knocked out. Look, he's breathing. Sebastian shot him but it was just a graze. Head wounds bleed like hell most of the time but he  _ is  _ breathing."

 

Shallowly, in Greg's opinion but he was no doctor and felt a cautious thread of optimism return.

 

"Take him home and put him to bed," said John. "I'll call round in a bit to see how he is."

 

Bill knelt and picked Mycroft up, carrying him out of the house as if he weighed nothing, Greg following close behind.

 

At Greg and Mycroft's house Bill laid the still-unconscious Mycroft on their bed and straightened up, a worried look in his eyes.

 

Greg wrung Bill's hand in thanks and poured both of them a hard knock of moonshine which Bill downed in one.

 

"What happened to Sebastian?" Greg asked.

 

Bill didn't reply, merely made a wrenching gesture with his massive hands and Greg winced.

 

"Guess we won't be having no more trouble from him then," sighed Greg. "Thank you my friend. If not for you…"

 

Greg was interrupted by a voice.

 

"Cooee, Sheriff. May we come in?"

 

Mrs Hudson and Molly were in his living room both looking anxious.

 

"We heard what happened." Mrs Hudson said. "We've come to help."

 

"I…"

 

"In here, is he?" Mrs Hudson asked, brushing past Greg into the bedroom with Molly close behind.

 

"Poor dear," said Mrs Hudson. She and Molly shared a look and Molly nodded.

 

"I'll clean Mycroft up and get him comfortable," said Molly soothingly. "Mrs H will get the kettle on."

 

Bill looked anxious at the sudden influx of females and said.

 

"Sheriff, I'm gonna clean up Doc Watson's back yard. I'll come back and see how he is later."

 

"Thank you, Bill." Greg said.

 

"Your next visit is on the house, Bill Wiggins." said Mrs Hudson and Greg was treated to the sight of the rugged mountain man blushing like a schoolboy.

 

"Much obliged, ma'am," he said and fled.

 

Greg slumped into his chair.

 

"Should I help Molly?" he asked. "Mycroft might look skinny as a winter deer but he ain't."

 

Mrs Hudson snorted.

 

"Molly is well used to undressing unconscious men, Greg. It's part of the job sometimes. And that's what Mycroft is. Unconscious."

 

Her tone softened as she saw how close the sheriff was to tears.

 

"He'll be fine, I promise. He'll have a hell of a headache and a story to tell in the saloon to anyone who wants to listen but he  _ will  _ be fine."

 

She held Greg close and made soothing noises as his emotions finally overwhelmed him and sobbed as if his heart would break.

 

Molly came out of the bedroom with a bowl in her hands filled with blood stained water.

 

"I've washed him and put him in a nightshirt. His colour is getting better. Go and see him, Greg."

 

Greg went into their bedroom and stopped. Molly had been right; Mycroft's colour was better and now that the blood had been washed off he looked like he was asleep.

 

Greg crossed the room and sat on the bed, stroking Mycroft's hair avoiding the deep furrow in his scalp that the bullet had left.

 

"Wake up, darlin'" he said quietly. "Everyone is safe. Rosie and Mary are okay but I need you to wake up so I can tell you properly. Hell, Bill's probably already at the saloon putting it to rights and telling everyone his version. You can do better than Billy Wiggins, can't ya?"

 

Miraculously, Greg felt Mycroft's eyelids flutter under his hand and found himself looking into two pools of very confused blue.

 

"Greg? What happened? One minute I was with Rosie, then Sebastian was there and…" Mycroft winced. "He shot me!"

 

"He paid for that and then some," said Greg, his voice cracking with relief. "Hope hell's hot enough for the sonofabitch."

 

"Thank you, my love." Mycroft replied.

 

"Thank Bill. Though I'll take the credit for Moriarty."

 

Mycroft smiled at that and Greg felt himself relax.

 

"Thought I was gonna lose you," Greg confessed.

 

"Don't be ridiculous, Greg. Though if Sebastian had been remotely competent with a gun, it might have been a different story. I won't be leaving you. Not when I love you with my whole heart." said Mycroft with a shy smile.

 

"Love you too," said Greg, gruffly and leant down to kiss his beloved softly.

 

"See, Doc? Canoodling already. Told you he'd be fine." That was Mrs Hudson.

 

John Watson laughed as he walked in carrying his medical bag.

 

"I never doubted you, Martha. Mycroft, how's the head?"

 

"Bloody sore but we Holmses are notoriously thick-skulled."

 

"I'll leave you something for the pain. Mary and Rosie send their love. They won't ever forget that you took a bullet for them."

 

"As long as they're both all right, that's all that matters." Mycroft said holding tightly to Greg's hand.

 

"Get plenty rest and we'll see you at Mike's when you're up to it. Everyone wants to hear your story."

 

Judging by the way the two men were looking at each other, the whole town might have to wait.

 

*

_ One Year Later _

 

"I'll show you around the town," said Martha Hudson to the smartly-dressed woman who had just come off the train that day.

 

"I'd like that. New York was getting too much for me. I think I'll like it here," said the woman whose name was Irene Adler.

 

"I'll be looking to retire soon," confessed Mrs Hudson. "The girls and boys will need someone to look after them."

 

"Sounds perfect," sighed Irene. "Shall we?"

 

The main street was bustling and Irene looked around her with interest as Mrs Hudson pointed out the various buildings and people.

 

"Who's  _ that ? _ " Irene asked, pointing discreetly to a man drawing a picture in the dirt with a stick for a bunch of fascinated children.

 

His flame-red hair was marred by a blaze of pure white and Irene guessed there was a story there.

 

"That's Mycroft the schoolmaster," said Mrs Hudson. "Don't waste your time hankering after him, dear."

 

"Oh. Why?"

 

Mrs Hudson flashed Irene a grin as luminous as the sun.

"He's the sheriff's mail-order bride."

 

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who has liked and commented on this and to my lovely Twitter peeps for the encouragement. Love you all.


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